Whoreson
by WildGrape
Summary: He used to be a child before he became Bishop. Short story of the ranger's past, suddenly popped in my mind. Of course, includes Luskans and a famous skinning knife. Violence, language. R&Rs would be nice.
1. Chapter 1

AN: **Warning #1**: This is not a "poor boy, no one loved him, that's why he's such a jerk" story. And it's neither a "son of a bitch, he hates everyone, what's his problem?" story. At least, I honestly tried to avoid such extremes – in this story as well as in "Half of you, half of me". I really hope I succeeded.

**Warning #2**: Contains some spoilers for "Half of you, half of me", but… the Hells with it :-))))

Reviews are highly appreciated!

* * *

**Whoreson**

He was hanging on a beam. That's what he liked to do most of all. The beam was in the corner of the room, just behind the small fireplace, and he liked to climb on it, clutch at it with his legs and just dangle there, head over heels. It made the whole room turn upside down, which seemed funny to him. Besides, after dangling for a long time, he was a bit dizzy - which was funny too, the way everything around him reeled.

The boy wanted to giggle, but refrained from it. He knew he shouldn't make any sounds when Mom had a "guest". She usually brought them home from the pub – travellers, merchants, soldiers, sometimes even locals of Redfallow's Watch.

He knew what they were doing there, in the bedroom. After all, he was six already, he was no fool, and Mom had explained him everything about it long time ago. That was exactly how children were born. Sometimes he wondered if he would get a brother or a sister out of it – even asked Mom about that.

"No, not if I can help it, sweetie," she laughed.

He also liked it, when Mom was laughing.

The door, turned over in his eyes, opened, and a turned over man left the bedroom, followed by turned over Mom, who was adjusting the straps of her home dress. Both were sweaty and tired.

"The caravan is leaving only in the morning, you know," the man pointed out suggestively.

"Yeah, I'll come and wave you 'good-bye'," Mom grinned, pushing him out of the front door into the street. "Nah, honey, you've got all you've paid for. Bye-bye."

She shut the door, leaning against it and chuckling to muffled protests from behind it. Her long dark-red hair was disheveled and twisted, making her look a bit like a burning torch.

"They always want everything for nothing," she muttered, still grinning, and shoved the hair off her damp glistering forehead.

Noticing him hanging on the beam, she tilted her head to match his turned over stare. He stuck out his tongue at her, and she laughed.

"You little possum," she came up to him, grabbing the boy by his waist and taking him down. He tried to use the opportunity to climb on her shoulders, but she groaned. "Nah, sweetie, Mom's too tired. And hungry like an ogre. Are you?"

He just beamed at her, and, smiling back, she seated him on the chair near the dining table and moved to the kitchen cabinet. Their house was so small that they didn't have a separate room for kitchen. Not that the boy minded – that way they could sit at the table and still be able to watch the fire.

He liked fire. It reminded him of Mom's hair.

The boy watched her reach out to the shelf, grab one of many glass vials standing there and emptying it. He knew she drank those not to have any more children. She didn't want any. She didn't even want him – she had told him that when he asked.

"Not at first, sweetie," she had said that time. "But then you were born, I looked at you and thought like, hey, such a nice little fellow can't make my life worse. Only better," she smiled at him and tousled his hair. "And you did made it better."

He wasn't offended by her confession. That was the deal between him and Mom – you asked straight honest questions and got straight honest answers. No sulking, no foolishness, no lies.

Mom opened the doors of the cabinet, threw a head of cabbage on the table, lightly, gracefully, almost playfully – Mom always moved like she was dancing. Fetching a knife, she started chopping the vegetables, humming some tune.

"So," she grinned to some of her thoughts, "how was _your_ day?"

He was thoughtful for some seconds, recollecting, then put up his hand, counting on fingers: "Went to the swamp. Found a coin. Had a fight with Jock."

"Ah, and here I was wondering where that bruise came from," Mom brushed her finger softly against his cheekbone, shook her head with a smile and returned to chopping vegetables. "Again. Guess that's what you men always do – fight and beat each other. So, what happened this time?"

"He said I am a son of a whore."

The knife slipped, cutting Mom's forefinger, and she hissed in pain, putting the point of her finger in her mouth to lick off the blood. He watched her beautiful face tighten a little, then she shrugged: "Well, sweetie… You are."

"I know," he nodded. "But he said it like… like it was something _bad_. I didn't like it."

She looked straight into his eyes, her dark brown on his bright amber, as if she wanted to see something there, deep in his head, then rapped out:

"Never think they are better than you. Because they are not."

"I know," he said almost in surprise.

"…Good."

He grinned: "Jock _can't _be better. I laid him down."

It was Mom's turn to grin, and she did, unwittingly. To make her smile wider, he added:

"And in the swamp I found rabbit trace. Wanted to catch him, but he ran away."

"You _did_ found a trace, really?" Mom arched her eyebrow unbelievingly.

"Yeah. I often do. It's not hard."

"Wow. You are a little genius."

"You say that just because I'm your son," he stated seriously, but his words suddenly made her burst out laughing.

"Gods…" she breathed out, wiping her eyes. "Sometimes I think you are too smart for your age. For _any_ age."

Before he could ask what she meant there came a loud knock on the door, and Mom's face flashed into a smile again:

"Ah, speaking of rabbits… It's about time."

She threw her knife on the table, drying her hands with her dress, and went to the door, sleeking her hair a bit. He watched her open the door and let in a tall man in dark cloak, with a bag on his shoulder.

"Knew you'd come," she pointed to the table and made off to the bedroom. "Got the money just now."

"Take your time," the man drawled indifferently, throwing the bag on the table and leaning against the wall.

The bag smelled of wood, leaves, wet fur and blood. The boy eyed it for some seconds, then shifted his gaze at the man. The man was a local hunter. Once in a while Mom bought meat from him, so he'd been to their house more than once. The boy was a little afraid of him, his silent dark figure standing in the corner, with all that hunting stuff of his, weapons and scars. And he had only one eye, surrounded by tired wrinkles despite his not exactly old age. The other eye was replaced by a strap of black fabric.

The man took a dagger out of sheath on his hip and nonchalantly began to clean his nails with its tip. The boy watched the moves of the sharp blade, glittering beautifully in firelight. Maybe, if he had a dagger like that, he could kill a rabbit. Then Mom wouldn't have to pay for meat.

He got so lost in his thoughts he didn't even noticed at first that the movements of the knife had actually stopped. The boy looked at the blade, then lifted his gaze. The man was looking right back at him, his only green eye sparkling in the shadows of his hood.

"What're you staring at, wolfie?" he asked in that chilly hoarse voice of his. His voice was always hoarse. Mom said it was because he had had a nasty wound in his throat once.

And he always called the boy 'wolfie' for some reason.

"The dagger," he answered simply.

The man's lips twisted into a humorless smirk: "Like it, huh?"

He had no chance to answer, as his Mom returned to the room, holding a small shabby purse and recounting coins in it as she walked.

"Shit…" she sighed, earning a knowing glare from the man. "Only fifty."

The hunter clicked his tongue, heading for the table where the bag laid: "Too bad for you. No money, no-"

"I'll pay the rest tomorrow," she smiled hopefully.

"Uh-huh. I'm no charity wagon, woman."

Her smile changed somehow, became warmer and colder at the same time.

"Or we can barter," she tilted her head a little.

The man snorted, but didn't take away the bag.

He stayed for the night sometimes. And Mom never asked for any money from him for that. When the boy asked her why she didn't, she smiled in a strange, almost happy way:

" 'Cause he brings us the best meat he can find," he remembered Mom lowering her voice to a whisper. "But don't tell him I've noticed that."

ooooo

He was sitting behind the table tying up a piece of rope into a noose. He figured that, maybe, with a right kind of noose he'll be able to try and catch the rabbit next time he went to the Mere.

The front door flung open, and Mom almost stormed in, a fair-haired man at her heels. The boy knew that man as well. He was a local merchant. He always smiled at the boy when they met in the street and patted his head. That made the boy wince. He didn't like being treated like a baby. Mom never treated him like that.

Mom went deep into the room, wrapping herself in her old woolen cloak. She did it hastily, almost angrily, and the boy noticed a droplet of blood in the corner of her mouth.

"I didn't ask for that," she snapped at the man. "Why the Hells did you drag me out of there?"

"That soldier slapped you!" the man exclaimed in a tone like his answer was obvious.

"Yeah! Because he wanted to! That's what whores get paid for! So that men can do with them anything they want!"

The man frowned at her words and cast a short glance at the boy, lowering his voice a little: "Let's not talk about that in front of a child."

The boy pursed his lips in fret, caused by the word 'child'.

"Oh please!" Mom hissed snidely. "This _child_ has more brains than you do!"

"I know all about whores," the boy nodded earnestly, and Mom grinned at him before turning back to the man:

"See? He knows! _You_ don't, so it seems! You don't get it that I actually lost my money today because of you!"

The man was silent for some time, then reached for his belt pouch: "I'll give you money."

Mom blanched, standing in the middle of the room, stunned and motionless like a statue. The boy darted his eyes from her to the man, suddenly alarmed.

Something felt wrong. Very wrong.

"I don't need your money," she said, slowly, quietly and icily, narrowing her eyes. "I earn them."

"We both know you need them," he answered softly and took a step toward her. "Esther, please. Don't get humiliated for gold. There is another life. You have a child…"

"We are doing fine, thank you," she said in the same low, slightly trembling voice, trembling with anger… or, maybe, something else.

He sighed, gently putting a hand on her shoulder. Mom shuddered under his touch as if his hand was red-hot.

"Esther… You should think about your future… your child… Do you really think he enjoys being the son of… of a whore?"

Mom gasped, sharply, helplessly, and a few tears suddenly slid down her pale cheeks.

"I do!" he protested bluntly, swiftly jumping off the chair, feeling a strange intensive burning inside of him. Anger, almost fury, and fright, and terror, and despair and many… _many_ other things he didn't know names for.

Because it was wrong. His Mom, always laughing, grinning and dancing around, now stood there and _cried_…

It was horribly _wrong_.

The man looked at him, calmly and sadly: "Please, sonny…"

"I'm not your _son_!" he snapped, landing a hating glare at the man. Oh, he _hated_ him. He made Mom cry. Never ever anyone made her cry. Even her 'guests', even the hunter, scary and coarse, no matter what he was saying or doing, never made her look so miserable, so helpless… never made her _cry_. "Get out!"

"Esther," he said almost pleadingly. "Calm him down."

Mom blinked slowly, allowing a few more silent tears to slip down her face, and suddenly jerked her chin up a little, stubbornly, even with some kind of dignity, a small thin smirk arising in the corners of her lips.

"He does as he pleases," she answered coldly, and her smirk became more evident. "After all, he's just a _child_, isn't he?"

"Yeah, heard that?" the boy grinned at the man. "Get out!"

He sighed: "Alright, I'll just leave the money on-"

"We don't _need_ money!" he shouted, planting a hard kick on the man's knee, and the man backed off. "Are you deaf? You want to pay her, you sleep with her and _then_ pay, like everybody else!" the man's eyes widened in shock. "Don't act like you are _special_!"

The man was trying desperately to come up with some answer, opening and closing his mouth, mutely, like a fish thrown out of water – when suddenly there came a sound. From behind the boy's back there came a croaky choking sound.

Mom's throaty laughter.

"Exactly!" she threw her hands up triumphally. "_Exactly_!"

The man tried again to say something, but the boy left him no chance, shoving him hard towards the door. He kicked him again for good measure, then pushed him out to the street. When the man stumbled down the porch and his face was on the level of boy's shoulders, the boy clenched his fist and punched him right in the nose, making it bleed.

"And stay away from here!" he yelled at the man, not caring about astonished people gathering around.

"What's going on?" someone muttered.

"Hells know," another hushed voice answered. "I'm telling you, this boy of hers is fucking crazy."

He looked up at them, daring someone else to say something, and when no one dared to, shut the door. Mom was sitting on the floor, embracing herself and still laughing, laughing in a hard and almost scary way, and the tears still ran down her reddened cheeks.

Many years later another woman would be sitting the same way right on the ground, in the middle of the ruins of her destroyed home village, among the corpses of her slaughtered neighbors, laughing and crying at the same time, unable to stop, while her 'friends' would be standing around, confused and frightened by her hysterics. The stupid paladin would try to mutter something soothing to her, but she would only laugh and cry harder because of that.

He would walk up to her and slap her, hard enough to split her lip, earning indignant cries from her companions, but cutting off her laughter. And she would lift her tear-filled cobalt eyes at him and smile and say "Thanks".

But now he just approached his Mom, who drew in a deep breath to calm down, looked at him and chuckled.

"Think I broke his nose," the boy said.

"…Well…" she wiped her eyes. "Shouldn't have gone that far, maybe…" she was silent for some moments, then looked at him again, her gaze grave: "Do I make you miserable, sweetie? Honestly?"

"No!" he answered, almost frustrated.

She sniffed away the last of her tears and reached for him, putting her arms around his legs, dragging him closer and pressing her cheek to his stomach.

"Shows how much they all know," she whispered.

He stroked her hair, looking into space and still feeling cold rage bubbling inside of his blood. He had the best mother in all the Faerun – and some blasted merchant made her doubt that. Not that the boy wanted to break his nose or something – no, his desire was much simpler.

He wanted him _not to_ _be_. Not to exist at all.

And the answer to that was just as simple.

_I'll kill him_.

ooooo

He hatched the idea for several weeks. The problem was that he had never killed anyone before. Sure, he could have had some practice on animals, but he didn't quite enjoyed the idea – he liked animals. Animals never made anyone miserable.

So he just loafed in the Mere or along the small dirty streets of Redfallow's Watch, hoping to come up with some answer to his dilemma. After the incident with the merchant all others – children and adults alike - kept off of him, which suited him just fine. Even Mom's 'guests' were a bit afraid of him, so he preferred to stay outdoors when they arrived – not to ruin Mom's business.

Absentmindedly he straddled into the tavern, small, warm and sooty. Not much customers were around, so he climbed on a bench at the far wall, looking around indifferently, deep in his thoughts. In the shadowed corner of the room he noticed the hunter. He was probably drunk, dozed off with his arms folded, legs flung on the table and his hood pulled deeply on his head. The boy watched him, wondering if this man could actually explain him how to kill somebody, then shook his head. The trapper wouldn't bother. The boy wanted to turn away, when suddenly his eyes froze on the man's hip – precisely on the sheath on it.

The knife.

How could he be so stupid! To kill somebody he needed weapon first!

Slipping off the bench, he silently crept up to the sleeping man and sat quietly near his chair, making sure no one paid attention to him. Then he licked his suddenly dry lips and carefully reached for the hilt of the dagger. His fingers were itching in anticipation as they closed slowly on the knife, and he paused, catching his breath. He bit the tip of his tongue not to make any sounds and began to draw the dagger free.

A hand, quick like a flash of lightning, caught his wrist in a shackle, and he flinched in fright, lifting his gaze. The only green eye stared back at him.

"And what in the Nine Hells you think you are doing, wolfie?" he growled, tightening his grip and making the boy wince.

"…I need a knife," he whispered. His throat was too dry to raise his voice.

"Figured that much," the man snorted. "Why would you need it, huh?"

"To kill," a simple and honest answer rolled off his tongue before he could think.

"Whom?" he asked in scoffing tone, that suggested he didn't believe the boy to be capable of something like that.

The boy licked his lips again. "…A rabbit," he lied finally.

"Really?" there was suspicion in his only eye. "And what makes you think _I _won't cut off your hand right now for stealing?"

"…Er…" he thought for a second, then shrugged and grinned. "Nothing."

The man grinned back: "Damn you right," the boy felt the grip on his wrist lessen a little. "Unless, of course, you are able to defend yourself. Which I doubt very much."

The boy grinned at him again – and then in one swift motion wrenched free his hand, still grabbing the dagger, drove the blade deep into the man's leg and, before the hunter could take time to come to his senses from pain and surprise, dashed out of the tavern.

He ran through the streets, taking turns, out of the village, up and down the hills, into the swamp, jumping from one mossy hummock to the other, instinctively picking up directions, not stopping for any coherent thought to make its way into his mind. He was running with wind's speed, his heart pounding in his chest so hard it made the ribs hurt, pulse throbbing amuck in his throat and temples. His one hand shoved off the branches that appeared in his way, his other hand clasped the dagger to his torso. He was still grinning, feeling some strange delight, almost rapture sparkling in his blood.

He had the knife. He got it.

He laughed aloud happily at the fact – which was a big mistake, because immediately he lost control of his breath, gasped, stumbled against a tree root, fell on the ground and fainted…

…When he woke up, it was already dark. Not that he was afraid to be in the Mere at night – it wouldn't be the first time. Mom allowed him to stay in the swamp for days if he wanted to. She knew he didn't like being in the village – there was usually nothing to do there.

His fingers were white and cold from the way they grabbed hold on the knife, never letting it out even as he was unconscious. They even crunched when he undo the fist. He got up to his feet, swayed a little, but managed to keep his balance. Looking at the knife, he grinned again, put it in his belt and went straight on, hoping to find some edible plants or roots. He knew a lot of them, so it wouldn't be hard to wait for sometime here, in the Mere. He didn't want to come back right now, figuring the hunter would be looking for him.

The boy smiled, rubbed his nose and started to whistle quietly.

He slept on the trees, ate some plants and finally decided that he could use the time he had to try and kill the rabbit. He found a trace and followed it for some time already.

Maybe he'd even get lucky to find a rabbit-burrow. He had done that already several times…

Someone grabbed the scruff of his neck, jerking him off his feet into the air, and the boy whirled wildly, snatching up the knife and slashing the assailant, but the next instant he was slammed into the nearest tree hard enough to make the stars twinkle before his eyes.

"Smartass, aren't you?" the hunter hissed at him, holding the boy in his stretched out arm - and by that staying out of reach.

The boy groaned in frustration, trying desperately to kick or stab him, but all he achieved was another hard struck against the tree, and almost blacked-out. Hanging feebly in the man's grasp, he clasped the dagger back to his chest.

"I need it," he muttered. "It's mine now."

There was silence, then the hunter suddenly chuckled darkly: "Guess it is now. Earned in blood, huh?" he shook the boy once more. "Are you that smart or that stupid, wolfie?"

"I'll kill him…" he answered quietly, as the man glared at him expectantly. "The merchant…"

"That guy?" the trapper winced in mild disdain. "Why would you bother?"

"…He made Mom cry…"

"Did he," the man growled coldly. "Just can't leave her alone, huh?" again there was silence, and then the boy felt that he was placed on his feet. "Well, don't trouble yourself, wolfie. Jerks like him are not worth the effort."

The boy blinked, leaning against the tree tiredly and looking up at the man.

"Why?" he asked.

"Eh, let him be. His own stupidity is fine enough punishment for him."

The boy contemplated that statement, staring into space.

"By the way," the hunter smirked, "you don't kill _rabbits_ with dagger. You need to trap 'em in a noose first."

"Ah," the boy nodded thoughtfully, then looked up at him again. "Will you teach me that?"

The hunter stared at him appraisingly, before twisting his lips in another smirk: "Know what…? Maybe I will. Now get moving home."

The boy did, and the trapper followed him. Turning his head a little, the boy noticed that the man limped – and his eyes slipped to his hip, wrapped up in a bandage. Noticing his glance, the hunter frowned:

"Yes, yes, you've got me," the boy grinned at his displeased, nearly miffed tone. "You little whoreson."

There was no insult in his words – no, it sounded almost like an approval.

The boy grinned wider, realizing - quite out of the blue - that he wouldn't mind if _this_ man called him "sonny".


	2. Chapter 2

…He lowered the bow, staring at the arrow that almost hit the distant mark.

Almost.

He winced in premonition – and, yeah, the expected hard cuff on the nape came immediately.

"You crooked-armed goblin," his mentor growled. "Don't you even _open_ your eyes when you shoot, huh? Another blunder like that, and I'm done wasting my time with you!"

The boy grinned, but didn't answer. He got used to those threats. After all, the trapper was 'wasting his time' with him for three years already. Most of the time they were hunting along the Mere. Sometimes even made it to the Sword Mountains, killing some orcs. Orcs were a common problem of Redfallow's Watch. They rarely attacked the village on purpose, just hung about sometimes. Well, and got killed.

Now and then the two of them travelled to nearby towns and villages, where his mentor made money on selling furs. Once they arrived in time for some kind of a festival, and, while the trapper was busy making deals, the boy out of boredom got engaged in shooting contest. He won the second prize – considering that he was only nine, while other participants were grown-ups, the achievement was impressive. So impressive that he pissed off some of the local boys. They cornered him in the alleyway, posturing predictably in a way that should have made him feel that they were the tough guys here, and not some alien upstart. As if he cared for some stupid childish ranks.

"Yeah, sure," he answered them that time snidely. "Definitely made all my way here just to make you feel losers."

Of course they started a fight. Or tried to, because he actually put an end to it quickly, breaking face to one, arm to another, and the rest thought better of bulling him any further. At least they had that much sense. Maybe, got the feeling that he actually didn't mind killing them too much.

And he didn't, in fact.

He left the alleyway grinning at their stupidity. It was then when he caught sight of a man in black leathers watching him thoughtfully. He glared at the man, wondering what in the Hells he wanted from him, but there was no emotions on the stony face of the man – and then he suddenly turned around and just disappeared in the crowd. Feeling himself kind of puzzled, the boy mentioned the man to the trapper. His mentor shrugged, looking just as puzzled, but something grim appeared in his features. Well, grimmer than usual.

They left the same day. Somewhat in a hurry.

Mom never traveled with them, but each time they came back she enjoyed listening to the boy's stories about what they had seen, done or encountered on their way. Even more so, the boy got the impression that she enjoyed the fact that after becoming his mentor, the hunter used to stay for the night at their house more often than before.

She also liked to listen about his 'studies', his progress and achievements. When she asked the trapper if the boy was indeed as good as he described himself, the trapper would only give the boy a pat on the shoulder and grin:

"He's a smart wolfie."

Those words made the boy smile almost proudly. Mom seemed pleased with that as well.

"Good," she used to tell him. "Maybe you'll be able to get out of this gods-forsaken hole and settle down somewhere better."

The boy didn't answer. Not that he minded leaving Redfallow's Watch one day - surely, there were a lot of other places in the world better than this small dirty swamp village. Actually, sometimes he thought that _any_ place was better. But for now he enjoyed their strange union of the three – he, his mom and his teacher. As if they had a small world of their own.

Others continued to avoid them. The fact that the trapper took the boy as his apprentice added no affection to both of them.

"No wonder," people said. "One psycho drew the other."

Showed how much they all knew.

Neither of them cared for those words. The boy just grinned at them, and somehow that wordless wry smile of his scared them and made lapse into silence. He wasn't about to harm any of them – really, to wish somebody dead or hurt you should have at least _some_ feelings towards the person. Even hatred and anger _are_ feelings.

But for the people of their village the boy felt nothing. Nothing at all. And hoped that they wouldn't be as foolish as to change that.

They were.

ooooo

"What in the Hells is going on there?" Mom whispered, coming out of the bedroom.

The boy cast a quick glance at her and shrugged. The noise outside had probably woken her up as well. He himself was awake for several minutes already, standing by the window and watching what was happening in the street.

Heavy rain was pouring, making it hard to distinguish something. Though he caught sight of several dark figures moving swiftly through the village. They entered buildings, dragged people out into the rain, bunching them all to a sleepy scared flock in the middle of the street. One of them was strolling along the crowd, pushing some folks aside, appraising others, as if looking for someone. All kids were driven together a bit aside and inspected with the same thorough.

The boy had once seen cattle been bunched by only a few of butchers. Somehow the scene before his eyes looked exactly the same.

Their own house stood some distance away from the road, so the boy figured it would take some time for the strangers to get to it. He pursed his lips, reaching for his bow that was leaned against the wall not far from him.

"Damn," he heard Mom's cursing above his shoulder and raised his head. Her face was white, eyes narrowed almost to slits. "Luskan recruiters," she grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed towards the kitchen. "You go to the cellar, quickly. I-"

She wasn't able to finish, as the door slammed open, and Mom only managed to shove the boy to the corner behind the fireplace. But that appeared to be unnecessary, as he understood from Mom's breath of relief.

"Need to leave," he heard familiar harsh voice and peeped out from behind the fireplace. The trapper gave him a short acknowledging smirk, then looked back at Mom. "Now."

She nodded, already moving along the house, frantically collecting some things into a bag. The hunter advanced the window, looking out carefully, his fingers stroking the string of his own bow slowly.

"Make haste," he hissed.

"How did you get here?" Mom asked as she took down from the wall the sheath with her sword she kept for self-defense.

"Came across their trace in the Mere," the trapper answered, still scanning the street out of the window. "Thought to get here before them, but…"

The boy flung the quiver on his shoulder, then suddenly a glimpse of memory came to his mind. The man in black, watching him.

"They'll take me, huh?" he wondered.

The trapper turned his head quickly, pinning the boy to the floor with his one-eyed glare.

"They won't," he stated.

"Ahh, he gives a damn," Mom grinned, putting on a cloak.

The hunter regarded her with another glare that only made her grin get wider.

"Back door," he snapped. "Get moving."

He waited for them to get to the back door, then followed himself. The front door creaked behind them, and the boy looked back for a second, enough to see a man in dark armor enter, then shrink back with an arrow blossoming in his eye socket, rainwater washing away blood from his face as he fell – and the next second the boy himself was pushed into the rain, and the trapper shut the door, leaving the three of them outside.

Making as little noise as possible they slipped into the night and rain, the trapper looking out for anyone to follow them or keep watch somewhere nearby. The boy heard a distant scream and looked up at Mom. Her face was fixed, she was silent.

"Why isn't anyone stopping them?" he whispered. "There are a lot of people and only few of _them_."

She snorted quietly from under the hood of her cloak: "…Beats me as well, sweetie."

He turned back to his mentor: "Let's kill them."

"Smartass again, huh?" the trapper shook his head. "Too smartass to deal with Luskans yet. Let's just get you out of here for a start," even as he spoke, his gaze darted around, scanning for dangers. "As far away from here as possible."

"West Harbor?" Mom suggested as they headed down the hill into the Mere. "Heard they are a tough bunch," something dark and bitter crept into her voice. "_They_ probably won't allow some bastards to take their children away."

"We'll see. So… killing Luskans is for some other time, wolfie," he was silent for a second to the accompaniment of the rain, then added. "Maybe."

The boy didn't like that 'maybe', but before he could give much thought to it a panic shout came from behind:

"There they are! That boy you wanted!"

"…Shit!" the trapper spat out, turning on his heels. "You two get out!"

The boy wanted to protest, but Mom grabbed him by the shoulder and darted off – so he had no choice but follow her scampering.

He concentrated on keeping his breathing in check.

The rain pattered against their cloaks, muffling the sound of their rash footsteps, its drops blending with silent tears on Mom's face…

ooooo

They never made it.

No matter how fast they ran – every time they came to a halt they realized they were followed. Methodically, relentlessly, insensibly - they were followed.

"Why do they want me so much?" the boy wondered.

Mom was leaning against the tree, breathless, exhausted, her dark-red hair curling wildly around her face, lips parted and dry – yet she managed to grin at him like she had always done:

"Guess, even the Luskans felt that you are the one and only, sweetie," she sighed and weighed her sword in her hand meditatively.

The boy didn't like that.

"We need to go," he said quietly.

"Nah, sweetie, Mom's too tired," she smiled at him. "Go. I'll try to play for time."

He blinked, feeling his eyes become strange… heavy and prickly.

"You'll die," he said.

"And _you_ won't," she replied, suddenly sharply. "Heard me? You won't."

He blinked again.

"…Alright. I won't."

"Good," she planted a hard kiss on his forehead, then shoved him away. "Now go."

And he went. Went on running.

As he ran, he wished so hard not to hear her last scream.

Yet he did.

ooooo

He knew it was all over, because he fell and broke his leg. Somehow he managed to climb on the tree and just sat there, among the leaves, his bow at ready, his eyes roaming over the clearing below. He knew they were there. He felt them, though couldn't see them.

Well, they couldn't see him either. He would have been proud of the fact that he made them nervous – if he gave a damn, that is.

His leg became swollen and numb with pain. He couldn't even scratch it because he knew that any sound or movement would give out his location. The only things that moved were his eyes… and his thoughts.

He didn't want to think, trying to concentrate on looking out – but he couldn't help it.

He had Mom, he had mentor. Now he hadn't. It seemed so simple to understand. Why couldn't he? Why in the Hells it felt so wrong?

Why had those people in the village behaved like cattle? Like animals? No, not like animals. Even the rabbit kicks and makes a racket when you catch it or try to kill it. Why hadn't they?

Why had that man shouted about them leaving? Did he want Luskans to get them? If he did… why? Did he think that Luskans would leave him alive for that? _Did_ they leave him alive?

If those people figured out that Luskans came for him – why hadn't anybody even bothered to try and warn him and Mom? Did they all hate them so much? Why? Because Mom didn't mind being a whore? Because he didn't want to play nice boy with people he never liked?

It felt so stupid. And so wrong. So _wrong_.

The boy blinked, looking up, at the sun emerging from behind the tree-tops, gilding the eternal silver mist of the Mere.

"Why?" he asked at the sun.

The same moment a tiny dart pierced his neck, and he felt intensive burning starting to course through his blood, making his whole body torpid.

_Poison_, - he thought, falling off the tree-branch, and mentally cuffed himself on the nape, like his mentor had done. – _Dolt, you shouldn't have opened your stupid mouth!_

He dropped on his back in the moss, but barely felt a thing as his nerves were deadened with venom.

"Gotcha," he heard a cold satisfied voice.

"Careful, we need him alive," another voice said.

"What so special about this one anyway?" third voice.

"The watcher said there was something about him."

"Not our place to think. Let the Hosttowers think."

"Then just tie him up and let's get moving. If he screams, gag him."

The boy couldn't even turn his head to see the speakers – and neither wanted to, for that matter. He felt so angry at himself for his own stupidity and carelessness, that the anger actually cleared his thoughts a little. Freed his brain from all those useless questions no one would ever answer.

So he just stared at the sky and made himself think. He _needed_ to think. He needed a plan. If he wanted to live, he needed a plan.

Luskans wouldn't kill him, that's for sure. Which was already good. Wasn't it? After all those chasing, and Redfallow's Watch stupidity – he will be alive.

He will be.

A dark figure appeared before his eyes, standing in his sunlight, and the boy narrowed his eyes. He couldn't make out the face under the hood, just a black featureless silhouette.

"Will you scream?" the voice out of the hood wondered. There were no emotions in that voice.

"Will it help?" the boy whispered sarcastically.

There was a pause, and the figure chuckled humorlessly:

"…No."

"Then what's the point?"

The Luskan didn't come up with an answer.

Suddenly he thought out quite a suitable plan.

Yes, they killed his mentor. Yes, they killed his Mom. Swiftly, in cold blood. Yes, he hated them. Just like he hated all those fools who had _allowed_ this shit to happen. There was nothing he could do about it at the moment. Even if he weren't paralyzed with poison, still these men were much better killers.

But they would take him with them. They would _teach_ him to kill. Swiftly, in cold blood. These stupid murderers _themselves_ would make him more than a match for them. And when they did… he'd come back.

He would.

Who cared about all those "why"? Who cared if he could actually simply make all that bullshit _not to be_?

The boy grinned.

"Now there's a crazy smile," the Luskan muttered under his breath…


End file.
